Blog Archives - Friday Flash Fiction

Isolation, by Guy Fletcher

19/8/2019

They live on the edge of town
in a house on a windswept hill.
The husband watches his ghost reflection
in the dilapitated living room window
as a torrent of rain furiously sweeps across.
His wife is confined to the bed, soft tomb,
he has too much time to contemplate doom

imagining bleak scenarios to come
as the indifferent oak hisses and water
drips from the ceiling like tears
yet it was once a dwelling full of mirth:
a photograph shows the couple smiling
with their child, it used to be a good life
but he will smile for the world...and his wife.

Words, by Ana Marie Dollano

18/8/2019

Scissors through paper, cut
like words plain-spoken, some
leave you... broken.

Of Wine, by Ana Marie Dollano

16/8/2019

In steady stream
cup after cup after cup… I
am a figment of your imagination

Castaway, by Adrian Mcrobb

12/8/2019

Dialling the familiar number
hearing the ringing tones
that no-one picks up
sending letters full of love
to that address, known by heart
only to have them returned unopened

Standing outside the house
broken windows of the soul
declare there's no-one in
introspective in her room
no perfume now or familiar odour
nor dressing table clutter

Leaves underfoot crunching, wrinkled, spent
mottled tones fading as old skin
hushed thought and sudden realisation
that she-is-gone
trans-parent, through that other door...

Thunderstorm Over Roath Park Lake, by Guy Fletcher

12/8/2019

The sun disappears, a dirty orange
and bruised sky frames the Scott Memorial.
Thunder growls as if a god
is clearing his mighty throat.
The earth is shaken by a violent clap
on this soporific afternoon,
fawk lightning cracks the sombre clouds
and the lake is now free from summer crowds

as a torrent of rain descends
which the parched grass gratefully devours,
the willow tree swaying in a strengthening wind
as I wander alone like some
mad philosopher soaked to the skin.
It is frightening, yet exhilarating
and a thousand circles form in the lake
to vanish as swiftly as a snowflake.

Enlightenment, by Ian Fletcher

11/8/2019

In the early times
there was much hope
as if I were a part
of some great game
with my own special
destiny still unknown
although somehow
under my control.

Yet the long years
did bring nothing
except this truth
that it is not I
who lives life
but life that lives
me and all know
what the end
of life will be.

Absence, by Ana Marie Dollano

11/8/2019

Hush is the sound it makes
The silence resonates...

A trickle, faint tinkle, an echo
Of longing
I thirst
For that single drop
To warm my spirit
Enkindle my soul
A sprinkle, a drizzle
To fizzle
My empty cup

I’m hoping, yearning, oh
But no… not a drop.

The Angel of Anne Frank, by Sankar Chatterjee

10/8/2019

Hiding in that dark Amsterdam attic
Facing annihilation, Anne Frank still believed
“…people are really good at heart.”
Little she would have known
German Gestapo would reincarnate
In American ICE agents in Mississippi.

Lillian, a little angel to Honduran parents
After kindergarten, coming to a ransacked home
“Where did Mommy and Daddy go?”
No answer, adults marching to detention centre.
Nearby, the strongman grinning with a wounded baby,
Just-orphaned, parents gunned down by his “hate merchants”.

The Angel of Anne protecting Lillian under her wings
Whispers “….this cruelty too shall end,
that peace and tranquility will return once more.”

Poetry – My Heart, by Arlene Antoinette

9/8/2019

My arms are mine/ my legs are mine/ my eyes, nose and mouth are mine/
but my heart remains/ in a neighborhood in Brooklyn, N.Y./ with memories from my youth/ both of which
are tied together perfectly with a bow/ and left on a stoop in Flatbush/ not waiting for my return/ not even missing me.

Freedom, by Mary Wallace

9/8/2019

He took off lightly ‘cross the field, I followed close at heel
Green grass, blue sky, a gentle breeze, we did a scottish reel.

He rested near an ancient tree, leant calmly on a limb,
As if he thought I’d need a break to finally capture him.

This dance, it happened in my mind, not actually him and me
A sigh escaped my saddened lips, how lovely to be free

Instead my children rescued him, returned him with a laugh
I wish I didn’t need their help to rescue my own scarf.

For Jane, by Bruce Levine

9/8/2019

A bunch of chocolate morsels
Just perfect for a Queen
Who craves a special holiday
And every day between

Written in celebration of National Chocolate Chip Cookie Day – August 4, 2019

Arcot Lake, by Adrian McRobb

9/8/2019

Mist rises from black water
coalesces into vague shapes
which half glimpsed disappear

Souls of swans glide serene
while horses charge their riders screaming
lovelorn lovers stroll then sink
out of sight in the corner of memory

Wet air drools on clothes and inhaled
breathing haunted atmospheres as dreams
which break upon the shores of reason

Wraiths float above the dark mirror
not sharing their reflections or thoughts
becoming us when the life-thread breaks...

Unfeeling, by Ana Marie Dollano

9/8/2019

The fog muffled the sound of voices
Then emptiness filled me
Inside

Culver Hole, by Guy Fletcher

5/8/2019

A rainbow arcs over Port Eynon
on this bracing December day
with clouds like Middle-Earth mountains.
Waves explode with futility
against immovable rocks
and I am exhausted after my stroll
to the weird, mysterious Culver Hole.

A stone structure is built into the cliff
with portals dating back many centuries.
Now it is low-tide, rumours abound
of smugglers alighting,
wild wind howling carrying the ghosts
of rugged men who came here long before
to this eerie part of the Gower shore.

Praying for a Blizzard, by Bruce Levine

2/8/2019

Summer heat
Lassitude permeating every pore
Wasted days
Too hot to even think
And moving takes more energy
Then it produces
With after-effects of permanence
In a single place
Unable to raise one’s body
Beyond a reclining chair
Heat rising
Steaming up from the pavement
In unending streams of perspiration
The only respite is recumbent
Drifting into a semi-comatose mixture
Of suffering and gloom
As days become nights
With no relief
But
Around May
To begin
Praying for a blizzard

Mustique, by Adrian McRobb

2/8/2019

Where palms wave
guilty ribbons kiss